Lumpitty-lump, bumpitty-bump, Welsh Losser walks home from work
The leaves are falling from chestnut trees, but Welsh Losser is somewhere else. The shadows mock his every step, but the fat freakish face only frowns.
“O, city of Kyiv, why have ye foiled my dreams?” cries the middle-aged man in the night of his mind.
Actually, it’s not Kyiv that has foiled Losser’s dreams, but the latest editor of the city’s leading English-language newspaper – Andrew Plum, a sour piece of fruit, indeed.
Woe to thee, Welsh Losser! It would be better if thou had never come to the ancient capital of the Eastern Slavs; more fortunate if thou had remained a figure of intrigue if only to thyself, a one-eyed wonder on the West Coast of the Western World. Was it so bad peddling ice cream in Washington State? Yes, yes, I know: it was a government job, of sorts, that thou held… or were thou a rusty-edged blade in the world of finance. Alas, I forget.
But come to Kyiv thou did, full of stories, left unfinished for effect; spouting jokes at every turn to disarm the rightfully suspicious interlocutor. O, man of mystery unfolded like soiled trousers, revealed like a child’s lie, discovered like dog crap beneath a tree – fate has truly forsaken thee.
For Mr. Plum knows nothing but spite, and it’s spite thou got tonight. A firing, wasn’t it?
Thou hast been dismissed, relieved of thy duties, shit-canned into the obscurity from whence thou came. No longer will thou lord it over those thou deemed lesser.
Injustice, Mr. Losser? I think not. Thy journalistic credentials were mere fiction, thy professional demeanor – a farce, thy pretentions to upward mobility as an expatriate of international standing a folly of holiday dimensions. Let’s be honest with ourselves, Losser, as no one else is here but thou and us…
And who are we, you ask? Ho, ho, ho, said the man with the Christmas-card face.
I’m the elf that filled that stocking on the fireplace in the background of that holiday stationery. I’m the ogre under the bridge in that bawdy joke thou lovest to tell. I’m that nasty little indescribable beast that does all the deeds that thou wouldst never admit to even if thou were roasted over a spit like the pink pig that thou in truth doth resemble.
Not laughing anymore, are we, ice cream pusher … oh, sorry, I meant to say, financial maverick, or whatever it was that thou supposedly did before coming to this town.
Regardless, thou are here now, out of work and out of luck.
Don’t fret though. No reason to frown, fat man. Where’s that smile for me… There, there, there.
I can revert thee to thy former station. I can in fact do much, much more.
Want to be more than the deputy editor of a second-rate rag, cobbling together copy for an audience of sexpats and loons from the so-called Ukrainian Diaspora? Want to really impress those diplomats and captains of industry whom thou imagined to be religiously reading thy tripe?
I can lift thee up beyond your feeble fantasies.
PR, thou sayest? Why not become a PR executive? I can arrange that for thee. And that’s just a start.
How about if thou gainest fame as a real writer, a writer of fiction, inspiring countless spellbound readers here and around the world? I see thee smiling, Mr. Losser.
That’s right, keep smiling, and keep walking, fat ass. Walk, walk, walk. And look at me, the shadow beneath thy gout-ridden feet. I’m going to lead thee somewhere, where thou had always wanted to go, but were afraid to tread. Keep walking and don’t look back. It’s all a dream, ice cream pusher, fat-faced, one-eyed freak. But when thou doesth awake, our deal will have been done, and thy dreams will be fulfilled in good time.
What’s that? The price of my services? Did I hear thee right, thou fireplug of a man, and I use this term lightly, for a man thou art in name alone?
Thou wilt get the bill when I am good and ready to give it. Yes…? Yes, indeed, I thought thou wouldst agree, passively, in silence, like the two-dimensional Christmas card that thou resembleth.
But enough of this bantering … and don’t be offended Mr. Losser. Thou wilt soon be the envy of every Kyiv-based writer, the poster boy of material success – expensive watch and metallic suit to boot. Yes, it’s all coming, so just be patient.
And I shall lay thy enemies at thy feet. I will pick Mr. Plum and slowly squeeze the literary life from his bile-filled bowels.
Others, too, will suffer, picked off one at a time from the masthead of Kyiv’s leading English-language newspaper, vile vermin that they are. Truth be told, I never read that rag anyway.
But don’t be offended, oh please, Mr. Losser. Better things lie ahead for thee. Just keep walking and don’t wake until our deal has been concluded. We are almost there… just a bit further. Keep thy mind on the prize, Welsh.
Lumpitty-lump, bumpitty-bump, Welsh Losser treads the sidewalks of Kyiv. The shadows no longer laugh underfoot. The leaves spiral out of his way, like warplanes shot out of the sky. There’s not a soul to be seen under a streetlamp or in a window, only silhouettes just around corners.
Woe to thee, Welsh Losser. It would be better if thou had never been born. May the hour of thy birth be stricken from the Book of Time. May the date thy life begins dry out on the calendar page. May children spit up every splash of ice cream that thou ever sold them, oh doomed one.
Lumpitty-lump, bumpitty-bump, look at ol’ Losser go!
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, February 27, 2013